Billingsgate and Balderdash

You are like the tuber of calcaneus, necessary but non-articulating.

Without you there is no ambulating me…

The things you’ve said to me in your gasps and low moans:

“Starting rotation from blackbird…”

“They transferred me to room 15…”

“It’s the same to die here or there.”

Meant nothing to me at the time, but mean everything now, in this age of torn Achilles.

We’re five words short of three thousand in an existence where words don’t count for nuthin’.

I miss you my tuber of calcaneus.

I miss the hole in my head.

What I’m Reading:

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

— Sylvia Plath / “Morning Song”